THE WRITER

Friday, November 30, 2012

(whilst on Skype)
Paris: look! i have £10!
Matt: that's great! you have my money!
Paris: and the coins you left me! one of them's £1!
Matt: yeah, those are the best coins! i like pounds, it's just that they're soooo heavy.

was dying so hard from that.

only to an American would that seem like a clever and terrible pun. the Englishman didn't get it.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

which Daddy decided to set up again this Christmas season after like a five-year hiatus. gosh, it's absolutely one of my favorite things about the holidays. he'd go nuts back when i was younger just going into department and hardware stores to buy the tiny denizens of the little town that lit up and always changed each year. and each year he added a new fixture, starting with the first building of a Manhattan apartment complex to the tailor and antiques store crafted aesthetically à la English cottages. yesterday i helped Daddy set up the river running through the town. will upload pictures soon, it looks amazing. and each year we have never named our little snow village.

new winter boots,

suede ankle boots in taupe. i love taupe. taupe taupe FUCKING TAUPE. it's so neutral and basically for the past two weeks i've worn them each day. it's appropriate for the winter creeping in on the Bay and shoes really do breed happiness. except when it rains. on suede shoes. then i'm screwed.

i'm sleeping a lot.

i'm back on drinking green tea,

i seriously thought during Thanksgiving my efforts at cutting out any fizzy drinks from my diet had gone down the drain. but motivation persists!

Christmas is making itself known in San Francisco.

TONS OF ESSAYS ARE POPPING UP IN MY MIND FOR CREATING,

and going to write them all down here:

Black Shoes
A Morning on the Embarcadero
Calling a Friend
On the Edge of the Golden
Arizona (Heat)

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Sunday, November 18, 2012

She parks the silver van a block away on a low-lit street that is cold and quiet. So is everywhere else there, the main intersection of Haight especially, but it’s not too bad with scattered people tracing the sidewalks or standing in with the chill in front of dark bars.

We’re going to make this Thursday the first of Saturday nights. We don’t plan on drinks, having settled our fix back at the apartment with Vodka Redbulls lasting seven rounds of Apples to Apples. We’re not really feeling the cold, we’re not really sure how it’s going to go, crossing the street. It’s a matte pavement and the only gloss comes from few stars in the sky and the metal beads on my shirt. And then there’s also few signs along the Haight lit up in green or white neon, despite being closed.

The Milk Bar’s lit, and open.

The sign juts out from the cemented venue in illuminated red—he points at the sign and asks me if they got the name from Corova in A Clockwork Orange. I want to say yes, but I really don’t know.

None of us have been here, and once inside we’re not that excited it’s the first time. It’s dark and warm, and plain white walls drape into the couches and tables which are equally pale. Above the mirrored bar hangs a red and green mural of a Vietnamese child soldier—it’s the only visible piece of this place anyone put effort towards in making a statement, to try and stand out from the other dance venues with overpriced drinks.

There’s also the back room, the dance floor where from the DJ booth echoes a strong tribal beat that’s moved along electronic waves for a sound so experimental, but expected. It’s my friend’s music. He’s been looking forward to this set all week.

There are four of us girls and a boy. He goes to buy me Coke and amaretto, my signature. Either to make the $11 it cost worth his wallet or the liquor was a sting, I stay latched to the glass and the brim is still high the whole night. The girls take sips, and there seems to be plenty for all of us.

Faces of girls from freshman year stand along the bar top downing yellow beers and try not to look at anyone beyond themselves. I want to say hi—I haven’t talked to them in two years. In a second thought I stay standing on the dance floor.

The walls are still plain and the back room’s spinning a disco ball that does nothing but entertain the static.

I stare at one man and try to tell one of the girls about him. She can’t believe it so she gets closer and disappears among whirling bodies. She comes back shaking her head, and laughing because no, the tall black man is not wearing a white jumpsuit.

It’s only a neat, saggy two-piece with Burberry across his shoulders in a scarf.

A new set is introduced by two young men in black tank tops and white wayfarers.

Their stuff is slower—racier.

And none of us can feel it nor when we try to.

After the amaretto’s watered down and the girls from freshman year try to swerve and nod towards the disco ball, I ask my friend if there’s time to head to Fell Street. The same nights on a Thursday there offer better sounds and swathed walls of red velvet.

didn't do writing here, hence no "write spot" (haha) but going out for a Thursday night dinner in San Francisco is all the more inspiring, especially not living in the city anymore. and where did i go after class? the always beautiful and inviting restaurant of The Green Chile Kitchen.

i've always seen this place from the 5 Muni and once i saw professors of the USF English department just shootin' the breeze here. it's not just great for its well-done Mexican cuisine (with undertones of chile spice) but the interior itself is so attractive, and i love how TGCK embraced and embellished on the 20's art deco mystique rather than revamp the whole spot. TGCK is relatively new, only been in this location from their old spot down the block on Fulton for four years. before there was some café, and even though i didn't know what that café served i always wanted to drop in to sit my that mirrored bar and enjoy a drink looking out up to the glass mosaic bordering the outside of the corner spot.

was a good meal, a good time with a bottle of Pacifico and lime over talks with my friend about Paris, sisters, boys, and suicide (but not in the dark sense, more a fascination-- okay that is weird but that's what came up in convo after the Golden Gate Bridge!)

i just know that i need to definitely have a place in San Francisco by January!

it feels like the last years of high school again because Milan is not at home. but instead of being away in the city at college my sister will be in England for two weeks. this is pretty exciting, albeit a bit surprising that after years of being an Anglophile and swearing that with each passing year the next one will grant me my dream holiday abroad to England-- and yet in the end my sister has gotten there first!

in the meantime, i've learned that the best times you could ever have in life you don't need to record on camera or in photos. i had an exceptional birthday and a week later a great night out with friends at The Milk Bar as my first legal night out to a bar scene. more focus on the time than making sure i snapped a good shot? i'd say so, and it was a relief. if i get a picture, it's usually to remind me of the great time i had or to show others-- but really, how much more do i need to prove to myself? the one who was having the great time? living and learning, and learning that good things in life will always exist after they've passed, in the medium of your memory.

and i'm writing more nonfiction than i thought i'd be capable of. so far writing truth, factual or self-discovery, based in my own experience has proven so well in that i am definitely growing more confident in writing by each work. and to keep track of what i've been writing, here is what i'm using for all them essays:

a lovely leather owl-embossed journal just for that, for which i thank Matt.
essays so far: